


Cartman's Favorite Chew Toy

by viaorel



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst and Humor, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viaorel/pseuds/viaorel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric is fat again, and there is only one person he knows who can turn that around quickly enough. Who cares about the almost ruined family life and the kid? Butters has to come help - after all, that's what he has always done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cartman's Favorite Chew Toy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BraveKate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraveKate/gifts).



> This is a present for BraveKate on her 24th birthday. I love you!

“The door!” _she_ screeches from the living room, her voice cracked and hoarse.

“Coming!” Butters calls out from the bedroom, where he is struggling to peel his damp t-shirt off.

He can’t show up in front of guests looking all sweaty from the jog he has just had, it would not be polite, but the doorbell keeps ringing like crazy and the voice from the living room urges him to do something about it.

There is nothing wrong with looking a bit unpresentable, Butters figures while hurrying to see who wants to have a word with the Stotches so badly at 9 a.m. on a fine Saturday morning like this. After all, it’s not like he has a five o’clock shadow or bed hair. His jogging shorts stick uncomfortably to his thighs as he walks, but this is fine as well so long as he deals with whatever pressing matter has brought the visitor to their doorstep and then hops right in the shower.

“Who is there?” Butters asks in a cheery voice but doesn’t care to look into the peephole and simply swings the door open because there is no one in the world who can frighten Butters Stotch.

“Hello, Butters,” the visitor says.

“Oh no,” a tiny wail escapes Butters’ mouth as soon as he lays his gaze on the man on his porch.

A nauseating tremble stirs inside his body, and the feeling is so terrifying and familiar that he battles the urge to shut the door, walk away and forget it ever happened, but he knows he can never do that. Not to Eric.

“Wow, these shorts are, like, really short,” Eric says and giggles a bit. His gaze stays on Butters’ legs, making his knees feel wobbly and lax. “You really go out and jog in these, like, in public? Dude, that’s pornography.”

He is fat again, Butters observes with an exasperated sigh.

“Who is that?” _she_ yells from the living room, not even caring enough to lift her buttocks from her favorite chair.

Butters doesn’t know whether he should answer: the last time he saw Eric Cartman on his doorstep it ended badly for his marriage, why should this time be different?

“I can’t believe you are still with that skank, Butters, goddamn you,” Eric mutters in the same half-whisper he has always used to show how dumb Butters was for doing this or that.

“Who is that?!” _she_ keeps demanding.

“Good morning, Eric,” Butters says in his most polite voice, however it is hard to be nice to someone whose every visit turns into a complete disaster for everyone. “I am guessing you are here to seek my help again.”

“What?” Eric grumbles, scratching the back of his neck. He always does it when there are lies about to come out of his mouth. “Don’t be lame, Butters, who needs your stupid help?”

“Well then you won’t mind if I asked you to leave,” Butters presses. He can’t get into this again, not after the last time.

 _She_ yells again asking about who he is talking to, which makes Eric scowl in disgust. This is too much stress for a Saturday morning like this, Butters catches himself complaining inwardly.

“Yeah, right, I’m not going anywhere,” Eric scoffs arrogantly and places his fists on his wide waist. “Coach says I need to lose all this weight till the beginning of the next season, you know what this means? This means you are coming with me, goddamit!”

The unpleasant ruffle in Butters’ stomach is a sure enough sign of what is going to happen next, but he can’t let it – not after what all his family had to go through only because he is unable to say no to Eric Cartman.

“Eric, you need to leave,” he says, but the words which were supposed to be a threat actually sound an awful lot like a plea when they are out, and Butters is clever enough to understand that this is what he is really doing – he is pleading Eric to be gone before history repeats itself yet another time.

“You see this?” Eric points at his pudgy belly hanging over his belt. “I _have_ to lose it, Butters, or else I’m as good as dead, you feel me?”

Butters moves the door a little bit and hides half of himself behind it. He knows full well it will not be able to save him when Eric Cartman gets really mad, but at this point he is willing to take any bone life throws him.

“I am sorry, Eric, I cannot help you anymore. I have my own life, my job. . .”

“It’s summer, dumbass, there are no classes at your stupid school,” Eric retorts, getting more pissed by the moment.

“My daughter. . .”

“With her grandfolks,” Eric interrupts with a huff. “You’re not fooling me, Butters. Just fucking get your shit and let’s go already!”

“No!” Butters feels his hands clenching into fists. “I am sorry, Eric, but I have had just enough of you breaking into my life whenever you need me for your selfish reasons and then, when you’re done with me, leave nothing but wreckage behind! I will _not_ help you this time, so you should just. . . beat it!”

He has never told Eric to go away in such strict tone before, but then again, he has never felt so angry either. Throughout the years his old friend’s reoccurring visits have always seemed like some sort of vacation from the life of a grown-up, like going back, to the good old days where everything was pretty much simple: you get into a mess – you get grounded. Oh, what crazy adventures Eric dragged him into back in the day!

But the present Eric looks at him with confusion in his eyes, and Butters can’t help the pleading whine that comes out of him next, “You should ask Stan and Kyle, they will definitely help you!”

“Those fags?” Eric snorts. “No way, they are lame. So are you coming or what?”

“ _No_ , Eric!”

“Eric?” _her_ voice calls behind Butters’ back, and the next moment _she_ is right next to him, pointing an incriminating finger at Eric’s wide chest. She yells hysterically, “Stay the fuck away from my husband, you hear me, you fat fuck? You stay away!”

It always makes Butters nervous to hear _her_ use such strong language, even if their daughter is not around. Women should not swear like that.

“Now, honey, relax,” he puts his hands on _her_ skinny shoulders, “it’s all going to be alright, I’ll take care of everything.”

“Like you did last time, you fucking freak?” _she_ accuses bitterly, pain glimmering in _her_ eyes. “Fine! Go! But when your daughter asks again what she saw, I’ll tell her the whole fucking truth! The whole truth!”

“Honey. . .”

 _She_ storms out of the hall crying, and Butters can hear the lock of their bedroom activated. Oh hamburgers, he is in trouble now.

“That was fast,” Eric smirks after _her_ and clicks his tongue. “Now, are we going or what? Come on, Butters, chop, chop!”

Butters leans on the door, suddenly realizing something. This is suffocating him, all of this: the domestic fights, the never-ending Eric problem, the anger that he feels now for both his wife and his friend, but most of all he feels crushed by his own indecisiveness. This dumb trait has always brought him nothing but trouble and will always do so as long as he keeps being this way. Why can’t he just say no and keep his word? Why can he not slam the door before Eric’s face and never look back?

“Come on, Butters.”

Eric is using this voice on him again: low and needy, a bit apologetic and just the right amount of pushy.

“No,” Butters utters meekly, looking helplessly at his bare feet.

“Butters, you know full well this is your responsibility to get me back in shape pronto, even Coach says so.”

“As far as I remember, Eric,” Butters mumbles weakly, “your coach doesn’t like me much.”

“What? No way, he calls everyone a pansy, it’s how he rolls!”

“Eric. . .”

There is so much he wants to say, so many unfinished conversations he wishes to continue and lead to an end, so many past moments he wants to recall together and maybe finally give them both some closure, but apparently Eric is in no mood for reminiscence. Butters feels Eric’s arms winding around his waist – bulky with fat, but still strong, arms of an athlete, – and then he is lifted in the air and ends up folded on Eric’s right shoulder, like a woman a Viking steals from a ravaged village.

“You just had to go there and make it your mission to give me a workout from the very first minute, huh,” Eric mumbles and starts moving away with his human load.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kyle spits out. “You spineless pussy, you let him do this to you again, didn’t you?”

Stan gives him a warning look because it’s just not nice to attack people like that, especially your kind of friends, but Kyle doesn’t give two shits about what Stan thinks right now – he is more concerned about Butters, who is standing in the middle of the football field in sportswear, a whistle around his neck and a dashboard in his hand, with such a chilled expression on his face like he does that every goddamn day. Stan sees a massive figure in a red t-shirt running laps around the field and panting so heavily they can almost hear it all the way here.

“Hello there, fellers!” Butters greets them with a cheerful wave, then turns to the running Cartman and yells like there’s no tomorrow, “What do you think you are doing slowing down, Eric? That has just earned you one extra lap!”

Cartman utters an exasperated growl and maybe an f-word or two but speeds up nevertheless, his fat belly wobbling from all the movement and his cheeks beetroot red. Wow, that’s impressive.

“How the hell? . .” Kyle, apparently, thinks so too.

They have both heard that Butters was the only one who could get that lardass back in shape whenever he got too lazy, but they haven’t seen their good old goofball of a friend actually working his magic.

“You fellers are here to work out too?” Butters asks, sweet and super polite as always. “Want to do stretching together? I’ve got some granola bars in case you’re hungry. I’ve also got peeled apples and bananas!”

He is twenty five now but looks seventeen tops with his bright happy eyes, juvenile features and his shorts which would only look fine on a small boy, but not on a married man with a kid, for Christ’s sake. Stan thinks he understands now why Shelly’s teenage daughter gets home so psyched whenever Mister Stotch substitutes her PE class at school.

“Dude!” Kyle yells, obviously not impressed with all Butters’ niceties. “Why are you helping him again? It’s his goddamn problem he is washing his career down the drain, not yours!”

“Well, fellers,” Butters casts his gaze down, seemingly at a loss for words. After a couple of seconds he sucks in a shaky breath and then continues, “Eric is my friend and I care about him an awful lot. I can’t just let him kill himself.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Kyle’s exasperation is so obvious Stan can almost touch it in the air, “you really don’t see it, do you? You didn’t see it when we were kids and you fail to see it now. He’s fucking using you, you tool!”

“Baby, calm down,” Stan pleads, putting a hand on his partner’s shoulder, “it’s their business, don’t be nosy.”

But Kyle is already spiraling out of control, and, boy oh boy, this does not look good for any of them.

“No! I won’t calm down!” he screeches so loud even Cartman turns his head. “I’m sick and tired of that fatass bossing Butters around, I hate it when he does that to people! Butters, come on, let’s go with us, have you gotten into a fight with your wife and have nowhere to live again? You want to stay with us?”

“I am perfectly fine living with Eric and his mother, thank you, Kyle,” Butters answers with a wide smile, but there is steel behind it, Stan notices with surprise. “Besides, Eric will never get in shape in time for the next season if not for my round-the-clock supervision.”

“Yeah, dude, he’s totally slowing down again,” Stan adds just for the sake of hearing Butters scream again because it’s freaking hilarious.

“ERIC CARTMAN!” Butters puts the whistle into his mouth and blows so hard his cheeks turn mauve. “If you dare slack off again, we will not leave this field until you drop on the ground dead with fatigue! Do I make myself clear?”

Cartman says something that seems a lot like a long and elaborated curse.

“I can’t hear you!” Butters screams, looking just about ready to jog up there and start beating him silly. Stan has no doubt Butters can, too – after all, he never misses his capoeira class. The dude can kick some serious ass if you get him going.

“SIR, YES, SIR!” Cartman yells back and speeds up again.

This is incredible, Stan observes. He and Kyle were going to watch a movie together after their workout, but this is so much better than anything Hollywood could ever offer. Kyle seems to be on the same page with him because when Stan casts him a curious look, there is a satisfied smirk on Kyle’s face.

“You know what, Butters?” he says and makes himself comfortable on the grass. “I would love some granola bars right now. How many laps does Cartman still have to run?”

Butters consults the dashboard in his hands, “Three more plus one as a punishment, so that’s four altogether.”

“Yeah, make it six.”

 

“Eric, wake up. It’s time.”

He is already awake, the sly fox, Buttes felt his stare on him while he was changing into his workout outfit.

“Wake up,” Butters gives the nice way another go before he switches on the hardcore mode.

Eric utters an indistinct mutter and turns to the other side, away from the bright light. It is summer, so the sun rises very early and it is monstrously bright already at eight a.m. – that is unless the curtains are shut. But they are as far from being shut as Eric Cartman is from getting his breakfast if he keeps pulling this ridiculous act.

Butters has been friends with Eric for so long that he keeps a whole mental collection of all his lazy faces, and the face Eric is making now tops the list.

“Butters, hon?” Ms. Cartman’s face pops in. Her sweet smile always makes Butters remember his childhood years, and whenever he speaks to her, his voice does a funny thing and turns all high-pitched and boyish. He doesn’t fight it. “I made everything just as you said. Are you boys ready to have breakfast now?”

 “In a moment, Ms. Cartman,” he beams at her, but when she leaves, humming some catchy tune she must have heard on the radio, Butters walks to the bed and gives Eric’s ass his best front kick.

“Ouch! Fuck! Butters, you asshole!”

“The conditions were that you do whatever I say, and you’ve been ignoring my commands.”

Eric turns to him, at a loss for words. He still cannot get used to being controlled like this, and every time they go through this it comes to him as a nasty surprise that Butters is so sweet to everyone else, but when he is in the coach mode, he turns into a malicious blood-sucking bitch. Butters would lie if he said he didn’t enjoy it though – picking on Eric for his own good is kind of fun.

“You tortured me in the gym for four fucking hours yesterday, I’m sore as fuck!”

“Language,” Butters says calmly. They will get to that part one of those days, but right now he has to choose his battles.

“Fuck you!”

“Oh, gee, Eric, I wasn’t aware you felt that way. If I had only known you didn’t really want to get back in shape so badly that you practically kidnapped me from my own house,” Butters says, trying to sound sarcastic, but he loses his train of thought mid-sentence and drops the act. “Anyway, get up, get dressed and let’s see what your mom has made us for breakfast.”

“You know what it is,” Eric scowls but throws the blanket aside and gets up with a loud exaggerated moan, “she is making only the stuff from your fucking list.”

“I’m afraid I am going to have to wash that mouth of yours with soap if you use that word in front of me again,” Butters deadpans, his heart racing madly in his chest. He is not very good at power play, but he has to be tough for Eric’s sake.

He leaves Eric to dress in his half-in-shape clothes (according to Stan and Kyle, Eric has four sets of clothes: perfect shape, half-in-shape, out of shape, fat-as-fuck; the half-in-shape clothes don’t fit that well yet, but they will in a week) and skips merrily downstairs. Eric’s mom is a great cook, she knows a lot of healthy recipes, but so long as she keeps catering to her son’s every wish, there will always be a need for Butters to keep an eye on this family.

The kitchen does not smell of deeply fried whatever for a change, and it’s nice. Ms. Cartman places a plate with a hard-boiled egg, a slice of whole-grain bread and a huge pile of salad, then gives him an affectionate kiss on the top of his head, “Eat, hon.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cartman,” Butters beams at her. “I think I will wait for Eric.”

He has to wait for five minutes, which is exactly the deadline Butters set for him to do his morning routine, and Eric is very much aware of that.

“What is that, Mom?” Eric asks in a strange voice that is a mixture of anger and a whine. “I don’t like hard-boiled, I like fried, Mom! Fried, as in having an actual taste!”

“Don’t be this way, hon, bad mood affects digestion,” Ms. Cartman coos and pulls out a chair for him. “Come on now, eat your salad and go get that workout with Butters.”

“Effing salad,” Eric complains to no one in particular, then sneaks a peak at Butters’ reaction. “That was not the word, Butters, all right?” Butters keeps chewing his salad like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, so Eric just tells him to shut up and grabs his fork.

Jogging brings back a lot of memories because this time Stan and Kyle join them. There’s a lot of fat, anti-Semite and gay jokes going around – so many, in fact, that some lady with a kid calls them hooligans and throws her kid’s toy at them.

“Well done, Eric,” Butters announces when they have completed their route. “Stan, Kyle, you fellers are in really good shape.”

They share an amused glance, then Kyle says, “We have each other to work out with, it’s much more fun. I, for one, would have never even considered trying winter jogging if it hadn’t been for Stan’s enthusiasm.”

“And Stan’s dick up your ass afterwards as an effing reward,” Eric mutters under his breath. His cheeks are so sweaty and red now he looks like a tomato that has been lying under the sun way too long. It’s a bit revolting, but somehow Butters finds himself unable to look away.

“Shut up, fatass,” Kyle retorts a hair too late, distracted by the firm look Stan is giving him. He then seems to make his mind about something and turns to Butters, “Listen, dude, you mind doing us all a solid? Could you bring us some water to cool down? Stan and I usually put some money in our workout clothes for this, but this morning has been sort of hectic, with Stan’s folks visiting last night and all. His dad is still in our living room, snoring in front of the TV.”

“Yeah,” Stan cuts in with a creepily phony smile, “Mom just left him there and headed home by herself. No idea what’s going on, but it’s been bugging us the whole time. So. That’s why we forgot.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll watch Cartman for you!” Kyle bumps Eric’s shoulder with his fist. The gesture is meant to be playful, but Eric doesn’t think so and pushes back.

Butters lets them keep at their childhood war on their own and jogs to the shop nearby. He takes his time choosing between the brands and honestly tries to remember what sort of water Kyle and Stan preferred – not because they wouldn’t drink it otherwise, but for the sake of killing the time. It was surely obvious that Eric’s old friends wanted to have a word with him alone and with Eric’s new coach always around it has become a challenge. Well, after all, they have always been friends, despite the name-calling and much worse over the years. They must have tons of things to tell each other.

It’s not jealousy he feels, no – he knows full well that Eric will never be his best friend, they are simply not wired that way, not like Stan and Kyle who can still be friends, work together and share a bed. However, childhood dreams are hard to let go, and sometimes a wave of regret blankets Butters and he remembers all those times when he tried his best to be Eric’s friend – and got burnt every single time.

“Well,” he sighs, paying no heed to the saleswoman as he hands her the bottles, “not much to do about that now.”

He lingers going back and even takes the long route, but when he does come close enough, the sounds of all a too familiar manner find their way to his ears – the threesome of friends is fighting.

Kyle is on the ground, and Butters catches his enraged expression as Eric, who is sitting on top of him, doesn’t even throw punches anymore – just strangles. Stan is a couple of feet away, both hands clapped over his mouth, blood streaming down his fingers and leaving alarmingly crimson stains on his white t-shirt. He looks disoriented, his eyes are out-of-focus, and the blood just keeps on running. Eric is hurt too, perhaps even more than he would like anyone to notice, but Butters can see all those alarming little things in his movements – the signs of agony.

“You fat fuck,” Kyle wheezes shakily as Eric lets go of his neck to bend down in a fit of uncontrollable blood-coughing. “Never cared. . . for anyone. How do you even live? How do you live with yourself?” Eric cannot answer, which seems to give Kyle momentum to keep going. “When are you going to stop ruining his life? When is it going to be enough? If you are too much of a wuss to do it, then I will, so you’d better open your mouth and start talking. He deserves to see the whole picture and know the truth about your lame-ass experiments on people’s lives, you asshole.”

“Big words, Kyle,” Eric attempts a smile with his split lips and ends up wincing in pain. “You’ve always been quite a speaker, but you know nothing.”

“I know enough to _hate_ you for what you did to Butters,” Kyle hisses, a grimace of pure disgust on his face.

That is when Butters finds himself running towards them, at the same time Stan regains his senses, and the two of them end the brawl silently and efficiently. Kyle and Eric yell at each other a lot, throw dirty names, but in the end they quiet down. Butters doesn’t remember how long it takes to get Eric home, but it feels like ages.

Ms. Cartman is out somewhere, probably with her much younger gentleman friend, and Butters feels safe taking care of Eric’s wounds in the bathroom on the first floor, where the medicine cabinet is. He makes Eric strip to his waist and examines the threateningly purple bruises on his right side, on his belly (still large, but not threatening to rip the belt anymore), his split lips and the black eye. Eric is a mess but doesn’t seem to care much – there is no pain but worry close to real panic in his eyes, Butters can see it, and the realization of what might be coming sends ghost claws scratching down his esophagus.

“Listen, Butters,” Eric finally says with a sigh as soon as they both walk into his room upstairs. “I don’t know how much of that you heard. . .”

 _It’s starting_. The thought itself is so terrifying that Butters stifles an agonizing moan and does with his body the one thing he knows can shut Eric up.

“Hey,” Eric utters, surprised, as Butters practically drapes himself over his large body, which he can hug fully now thanks to all these weeks. “Hey, wait just a sec, listen.”

“No,” Butters cuts him off in a commanding tone – something he doesn’t do that often. Practically never, to be precise. “I don’t want to talk about it, so you’d better shut your mouth and let me put mine to work.”

Eric shuts up, all right – more like freezes in the middle of a retort in the making, and when Butters stands on his toes to give him a bite on the side of his neck, Eric lets him. He doesn’t object to moving onto the bed and, suddenly all thumbs, lets Butters pull down his sweatpants and lies submissively on his back to give Butters more room to wiggle out of his clothes.

In his fantasies, Butters always straddles Eric while he kisses him and slowly builds Eric’s tension with his hand and their body contact, but he can’t do the straddling – Eric is still too wide, and there will have to be at least two full days until the kissing may be renewed, courtesy of Stan and Kyle. There is not much choice left, so Butters settles for the option he is left with and slides down, flexible and gracious, to put a bite mark on Eric’s inner thigh. It’s hairy and wobbly, but he likes it – not more than Eric’s fit body, huge and muscular, radiating bull strength, but it’s still Eric and it will always be him, fat or fit.

The sounds Eric makes bring back a lot of memories, and Butters shuts his eyes, trying to focus, but there’s no use – the pictures of the old days, the bitterly happy days, consume him in full. The one memory of high school that haunts him most frequently is the day when Eric came to school seriously drunk, got his ass kicked by the coach and then hid on the roof, smoking one cigarette after another and mumbling curses. Butters was also there, on that roof – sneakily trying his first cigarette, unsurprisingly alone in the overdue experience and now trapped: if he moved, the devastated mess that was Eric would notice him. He did, of course, after thirty minutes or so, and when it happened, Eric was just in the right state of angry at the world to take it out on the innocent witness.

“Don’t hit me, Eric, please!” Butters pleaded, because what other choice did he have?

By that time Eric Cartman, the whiny fat boy in elementary and middle school, had turned into the beefcake he had always dreamt of becoming, only if other jocks in their school were sort of friendly due to Stan’s wise leadership, Eric was a ticking time bomb buried shallow in the ground and biding its time till someone sets a careless foot on it, applies just the right amount of pressure. Butters had no idea that it was not rage but mostly hurt driving Eric that day – he had almost lost his mom to a severe stroke the day before – but at the moment of being held captive in the monstrously strong arms Butters felt numb and so weak, weaker than upon seeing his father’s enraged expression and hearing his voice calling. He was so scared of the things Eric might do to him in the solitude of the roof that he was willing to do anything just to be left alone.

“Anything, huh,” Eric observed quietly with a menacing sparkle in his eyes. “Anything,” he repeated as if he hadn’t had the full taste of the powerful word the first time.

Butters only did as he was told. He had never tried anything like that, but there were the movies he kept on his laptop and there were the night fantasies – Butters didn’t know which of them were of better help, but Eric seemed to enjoy what was being done to him so much that at a certain point he almost ripped half of Butters’ hair out with his clenched fist. Butters didn’t mind – he could see the silent tears now and hear the shaky breaths and the deep moans of both pain and pleasure: how could he resist Eric when he was hurting like that? Helping him was something he had always done before, and it wasn’t even that much of a trouble if he wanted it too.

They started it in a strange fashion and ended it even more strangely a month later. Butters doesn’t like to think of Eric these days, but sometimes, in the privacy of his home when no one else is there or during classes, when his students are writing a test and his only company is the quiet rustling of pens impregnating test papers with knowledge, vast or scarce, their owners possess – sometimes a herd of untamed what-ifs runs through his mind. What if there hadn’t been that one drunken mistake at the party? What if Eric had forgiven him for it? What if there had been no wedding and the subsequent game of playing house? Would there be something else waiting for them now, not the seldom kidnappings for a couple of months and after that – the inevitable return to the way things were? His life was so bizarre now, and it was getting progressively harder to mend the damage Eric’s selfishness was doing to him.

Lying in bed with the sleeping Eric pressed closely to his right side, Butters stares at the ceiling. His body is perfectly still, but his mind is restless: he has only now realized that he hasn’t seen his daughter for two weeks. He calls, of course, and texts her good night and good morning, but it is not the same. He is sure his folks are taking good care of her, but their home is still not hers – she needs her own dad and even mom. The mom, Butters observes, hasn’t tried to contact him and keeps screening all his calls. Maybe it’s for the best: he has no idea what he will say if she ever picks up.

It is around 1 p.m. when Butters gets up to make them some lunch. Eric is supposed to be working his butt off at the gym now, but he looks so peaceful when he is asleep, so devoid of anger, that Butters lets him nap a little more.

The phone call catches him in the middle of making lean turkey sandwiches.

“Listen, Butters,” Kyle sighs heavily instead of a normal _hello_. “I’m sorry for what happened this morning, don’t hang up.”

“Why would I hang up on you, Kyle?” Butters wonders. “It’s rude to do that to friends, whatever the differences.”

“Oh. . . Ok, thanks. But I do feel bad. Stan and I should have talked to you in the first place, not force that no-good fatass to come clean.”

“I would appreciate it if you stopped calling him that while talking to me.” He puts the slices of onions and tomatoes on the turkey and lids it with some bread. “But if you ask me, I don’t see why you should feel bad: you fellers have been friends for ages, it’s only natural that you disagree in some ways.”

“Yeah, but. . . I feel bad not because we got into a fight, that son of a. . . Cartman deserved every single punch. It’s because we should have come to you first.”

“Well, why is that?”

Butters opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it in search of some celery roots to grate. It always helps him to turn on the autopilot mode when something bad is about to happen.

Kyle sighs again, this time sounding desperately sad. “At first I thought it would be funny to watch you boss around Cartman, but then I remembered that you had a family, a kid. Things might not have been going well with the missis, but your daughter _adores_ you, and I know how you love her. You are a great dad, Butters – really, the best.”

“Why, thank you, Kyle.” His voice does a funny thing and jumps unnaturally high, but Kyle seems too preoccupied with his gloomy thoughts to notice.

“I don't know if you plan on staying with Cartman, but listen to the certified lawyer here: you might lose custody over your kid if your wife files divorce papers, and it would be just wrong on so many levels!”

Butters swallows heavily while his hands do the familiar work of peeling the celery root. “I know.”

“That’s why Stan and I decided you should know the whole truth about Cartman before you make the wrong call. Jesus, it’s hard. . .” Butters hears him muttering and then Stan’s voice telling him to keep going, that it’s for the best. Butters waits patiently. Then Kyle sucks in a shaky breath and blurts out, “Your daughter is not really yours, and Cartman planned the whole thing.”

Butters’ hand holding the celery root clenches for one painful moment, but then he keeps on grating. “I know, Kyle. Lexus told me.”

“What?” Kyle seems to be choking on the air. “Wh- Why? When?”

“Oh, you know, during one of the many family fights we used to have when I was still trying to fix us. She told me the whole thing: how Eric approached her and offered the deal and she agreed because she didn’t want to raise her baby alone and I was goofy enough to believe their story. I was, and I did.”

There is a long strained silence that follows, and Butters is not in a hurry to break it.

“Holy shit,” Kyle finally manages in a choked voice. “How do you. . . What did you do after that?”

“Nothing, as you can see. Lexus is still my wife, although we don’t love each other, and Marge is and will always be my daughter.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it, are you for real? Dude, you are a saint!”

“No, Kyle,” he chuckles, “I just love my daughter.”

“But if you know, how can you even be around Cartman after all he’s done? I remember very clearly how he accused you of getting drunk and sleeping with Lexus at that party, how he practically annihilated you! Christ, he even insisted that you marry the girl – he was the one who made you miserable! How could one forgive something like that?”

Butters turns the faucet on and washes the tomatoes for the salad. The cold water brushing against his skin somehow makes it easier. “Kyle, you have to understand something here. Eric is a. . . he is a person with issues.”

“Hell, yeah, he has issues! Look at how perfectly he destroyed the life of the only person he ever loved because he was too spineless to say ‘I love you’!”

The sudden fit makes Butters come to a halt. He turns his inner eye to the spot in the middle of his chest where it aches the most and listens for what appears to be a long time.

_What is it?_

“He has a serious personality disorder, Kyle, he is not quite right in the head.”

“Did he tell you that? Oh, that fatass has gotten too far, that insolent asshole!”

“His mother told it to me, in secret. Eric doesn’t know that I know.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Butters? He played you like a violin! Don’t you know he has been using his slut of a mom in his evil plots since he was born?!”

“Kyle, this is different. Eric does have the dissocial personality disorder, I looked it up and it explains everything: the failure to learn from experience, the tendency to blame everyone else but himself, the callousness and the uncontrolled anger. Eric might be a prick sometimes, but he isn’t a prick by choice.”

Kyle makes an exasperated noise and gives the phone to Stan.

“Hello, Butters? Are you still there?” Stan ventures sheepishly.

“Yes, Stan. How nice of you to finally join us.”

“I’m sorry if our disbelief offends you, but we have known Cartman for far too long to learn not to trust him. In the past, he has claimed to have all sorts of diseases to get away with stuff, and this just seems like one of those cases.”

“Why would he make such a thing up?”

“Because he’s _Cartman_!”

“But why is he like that? Have you fellers ever wondered why he is so inconsiderate of others, why he feels no guilt when he has done something bad?”

This puzzles both Stan and Kyle – Butters can feel them looking at each other at a loss for a good minute. He presses on, “What Eric did to me was terrible, I don’t deny that, but I sincerely believe he is not guilty. For all I know, he might have convinced himself that I had actually cheated on him at that party. But. . .” His throat suddenly goes dry and the air scratches it like a rabid cat trying to get to its offender through the bars of its cage. He swallows with effort and goes on, “But I will accept that. It is hard, you have no idea how much, it gets harder on me and my family every time, and I am at my wit’s end trying to find a solution that would hurt everyone the least. . . Yet Eric is still my dearest friend and I will come to his rescue whenever he calls for me.”

“Which makes you an even more interesting toy,” Kyle hisses in his ear. “Mark my words, Butters: Cartman is playing a trick on you, he’s a lying bastard and he will never change. You know why he plotted the whole thing with Lexus in high school?”

“Kyle!” Stan’s rumbling voice cuts in, but Kyle is unstoppable.

“For some reason, he made himself believe that the guys on the team thought he was lame because he was dating you. Now I know for a fact that not one of them was homophobic – Stan had been dating me for more than a year by that time, and he was the captain. Cartman made the whole thing up probably because he was too scared or fuck knows why else, and he did what he did. Trust me, Butters, there’s nothing wrong with his head – he is just that stupid to see things clearly. He will torture you because he likes it that you let him, he’s a fucking sadist and _you are his favorite chew toy_!”

The pain in the chest is suddenly so engulfing that Butters feels lacerated on the inside – barbarically, irreparably – and then, when the pain penetrates the highest barrier and breaks free, there is nothing after – only the emptiness.

He doesn’t remember saying his goodbyes, but when he does come to his senses, he and Eric are having lunch together: sandwiches and salad accompanied by green smoothies. The only sound they can hear is the quarrel of a couple in the vicinity, to which no one pays heed. Then there’s the gym and the long jog late in the evening. Eric struggles through the pain and never even once brings the morning episode up, not even to his mom when she is back for dinner and starts asking questions.

He falls asleep quickly after a day like this, and Butters crawls in bed with him and makes himself comfortable by his side, still listening to the crystal-clear emptiness inside. In the middle of the night, Eric does something he almost never does – turns around to face Butters and pulls him close for a hug.

“You’re not asleep, Butters, stop faking.”

“You can tell that?” he whispers groggily. “Wow, that’s impressive, Eric.”

“Shut up.” Eric is silent for a long while, and Butters almost dozes off back to sleep when he hears Eric’s strangled voice again, “There’s nothing wrong with me, you know. I made that shit up, I don’t remember why, it was a long time ago. But it’s all bull, I’m normal.”

He seems desperate, keeping the tears at bay with the sheer willpower, and at the sound of that voice the emptiness inside Butters breaks in half with an audible snap, and all of a sudden he knows what he should do.

“I know, Eric,” he soothes and finds his friend’s face in the darkness to give it a light stroke. “I just wanted Stan and Kyle to leave us alone.”

“Really?”

“I could never lie to you. You would always see through my act.”

“Huh, that’s true, I’m cool like that.”

“We’ll see how cool you are tomorrow in the workout, but yeah. You’re cool like that.”

His mind finally at peace, Eric falls back to sleep rather quickly, and Butters follows close behind. He has just told the biggest lie in his whole life, but the guilt takes its time to kick in. Perhaps it will never do – for everyone’s good.


End file.
